


Cinnamon Roll

by ossapher



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:57:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4521072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember the original "got milk" commercial, where the guy chokes on his toast trying to say the name "Aaron Burr"? Well... this will probably be funnier if you do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cinnamon Roll

**Author's Note:**

> Mandatory viewing before you read: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z-KoAi3Nl9Q

“You’re late,” Hamilton said, the instant Laurens walked into the room. “Where have you been all morning?”

“Running an errand,” Laurens said airily, taking a seat on Hamilton’s desk and propping his feet on an unoccupied chair. “Did you miss me?”

“I missed your help,” Hamilton glowered, scribbling away even as he spoke. “I have had to translate the whole of this myself, and my head has been pounding for days now, as you well know.” Suddenly he stopped, sniffing the air, looking up at Laurens. “What is that I smell?”

“Perhaps something that will cheer you up a little.” Laurens reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew something wrapped in white cloth. He held it out to Hamilton, who unwrapped it as though at any moment it might bite him.

“It is a little squashed,” Laurens said, dismayed. “And I couldn’t find a way to keep the icing from—“

“You brought me a cinnamon roll.”

“Well, yes. I thought that much obvious.”

“How in hell did you get a cinnamon roll? Is—is this sugar icing?”

“I suspect it is. As to how I procured it, some things are best left unexplained. You would not believe the depths to which I have sunk.” (He had, in fact, gotten up quite early in the morning, put on some old civilian clothes, walked to the old Tory Brompton’s farm, and flirted a little with old Brompton’s charming daughter. After all, he had reasoned, General Clinton had breakfasted with Brompton only a few days before—his household would surely have baked goods in abundance.)

“Laurens,” Hamilton said, holding the sweet out like a benediction, “you are like this cinnamon roll: too sweet, too pure, too good for our sinful world.”

Laurens’ eyes widened in mock concern. “If it is too good for this world, does that mean you will not eat it?”

“I did not say that. On the contrary, such a wonderful specimen practically demands to be tasted,” said Hamilton, with a waggle of his eyebrows. He stuffed the cinnamon roll whole into his mouth.

“Am I supposed to be impressed by that?” Laurens laughed, face pinkening.

“Hamilton?” Washington shouted through the wall. “There was a colonel, a follower of Charles Lee. At Monmouth he came down with a dreadful case of heatstroke and has invalidated out. What is his name again?”

Hamilton froze, cheeks bulging. He glanced at the wall. “UWWUHBWUH,” he bellowed through a mouthful of cinnamon roll.

“What was that?”

Hamilton cast a pleading look at Laurens.

“Don’t look at me,” Laurens whispered. “It’s not like I brought milk along!”

Hamilton grimaced. “UWWO! BWUH!”

“I apologize, I cannot hear you through the wall.” A creak of floorboards in the next room, the sound of footsteps. Washington appeared in the doorway.

“I believe the name you are looking for is Aaron Burr, Your Excellency,” Laurens said, barely hiding a grin. Just then Hamilton, through some esophageal convulsion, attempted to swallow the cinnamon roll: he choked almost immediately. Laurens thumped him on the back once or twice, and eventually he got the whole thing down.

Washington raised an eyebrow when the display was done and it was clear his aide was not going to expire then and there. “Are you quite well, Hamilton?”

“Yes, Your Excellency. I apologize.”

“What was that you were eating?”

“It was a cinnamon roll, Your Excellency.” Not a muscle in Hamilton’s face moved, but his skin flushed a deep scarlet.

“Ah,” said Washington, with a world-weary shake of his head. He moved to return to his own improvised office-space, half-turning to face them just before the door. “I would be a little more careful were I you, Hamilton. You may be quite handy with the girls, but from what I hear old man Brompton is a crack shot with his rifle, and very protective of his daughters.”


End file.
